The Dark Lord’s inner circle stood gathered deep within the Forbidden Forest, the clearing lit by a cold, unnatural light. Ash still floated in the air from the ruined camp nearby—smoke curling into the sky like black ribbons. The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of dark magic and the heavy breaths of those who had dared follow him this far.

You stood at the edge of the clearing, your arms bound behind you, held by a rough spell that crackled faintly with energy. Dirt stained your cheeks. Blood dried at your temple. But your eyes burned—defiant, unwavering.

A tall, masked Death Eater stepped forward, looking toward Voldemort’s shadowed figure. His voice was deep and gravelly.

“Who is she?”

There was no hesitation in Voldemort’s answer. His voice was cold, smooth, and cruelly flat.

“Nobody important.”

The words were sharper than any blade. And yet, they didn’t surprise you. They cut, yes—but they were familiar. Expected.

Mattheo stood tense near the edge of the gathering, his hands clenched into fists, jaw tight. His curls were damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. His eyes flicked between you and Voldemort, rage brewing behind them.

Tom, silent beside him, didn’t move. But his dark gaze was locked on their father—unblinking, unreadable.

You didn’t look away. Not from Voldemort. Not from the man who had given you life but never claimed you.

Another beat passed. The masked Death Eater gave a soft chuckle, tilting his head toward you.

“Nobody important… That’s amazing,” he said with a sick kind of wonder. “Do you know, in nine hundred years of time and space, I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before?”

His voice echoed like prophecy. Like fate tapping on the edge of something far bigger.

Tom’s shoulders shifted, subtle but sharp. He was calculating. Dangerous. His gaze hadn’t left Voldemort. And still, he said nothing.

Mattheo stepped forward, only slightly, his voice low, strained. “She’s your daughter.”

Voldemort didn’t even blink.

“She is nothing,” he said quietly. “A byproduct of weakness. I should have ended her when she was born.”

Mattheo surged forward another step, wand already half-raised, until Tom’s hand caught his arm.

“Not here,” Tom whispered. “Not yet.”

You swallowed hard, every muscle locked, every heartbeat screaming louder than the last. But your voice didn’t shake.

“I’m not nothing.”

Voldemort looked at you then. Not with recognition. Not with regret. Just ice.

“No. You’re a lesson.”

Silence fell again like a curse.

The Death Eaters stood still. No one dared to move. The air itself felt thinner—charged with something ancient and cruel.

Tom turned his head slightly, finally looking at you. And in that one look, something passed—unspoken, electric. He didn’t say it aloud, but you heard it anyway.

You are not nothing.

Mattheo’s grip on his wand tightened.

And then Voldemort turned his back to you.

“Kill her,” he said without emotion.

But before a single spell could be cast, the shadows behind you shifted—and something stirred in the dark.